“Did you say anything about where Miss Markey’s friend may have gone?”
“I didn’t say anything, but then he asked if the friend might have gone to the ski house.”
“And what did you say?” Twaddle asked.
“I told him the cops said I’m not allowed to say that.”
“What did he look like?”
“He was a big guy. Looked like a football player. Reddish brown hair. Kinda curly.”
Ben had moved closer to Twaddle to hear both ends of the conversation.
Twaddle hurriedly thanked the garage attendant and put down the phone. They looked at each other. “Marcus Ambrose,” they said in unison.
• • •
Twaddle ordered, “Ben, find out if there is a phone number for Lisa Markey in Windham.”
Thirty seconds later Ben said, “There is no such listing.”
“Then phone the town clerk in Windham and ask him to check the records for a property listed in Lisa Markey’s name. We have to find the address of her cabin. Thanks to that loose-lipped garage attendant, Marcus Ambrose may be headed there now.”
Rapidly, he continued to bark orders.
“Contact the local precinct in Windham to see if they know where her home is. She’s not an ordinary owner of a ski cottage. Lisa Markey was a beautiful young woman and would have been noticed if she was there every season.”
The lead detective who had been probing further into the backgrounds of the people who had flown with Alexandra in the chartered plane—Marcus Ambrose, Grant Wilson and Larry Thompson—appeared at Twaddle’s desk. “We found something, Hubert,” he said.
Twaddle scanned the reports. “It is exactly what I suspected. As always, it’s about money.”
He fished in his pocket and found Marcus Ambrose’s business card. He waited as the phone rang twice before it was picked up.
“Executair Airlines. Good afternoon.”
Recognizing her voice he said, “Good afternoon, Miss Lansing. This is Detective Twaddle. Am I right that your firm has a helicopter for hire?”
“Oh, indeed we have.”
“Is it available right now?”
“I’m so sorry but Mr. Ambrose just took off in it.”
“Oh, I am sorry,” Twaddle remarked mildly. “Do you happen to know where he is going?”
“No, I don’t. He doesn’t tell me his comings and goings.” Miss Lansing giggled. “After all, he’s a bachelor and good-looking and rich. I only wish I was twenty years younger.”
Twaddle had no interest in responding to inane chatter.
“Miss Lansing, did Executair provide a helicopter to take a party to Windham, New York, last winter?”
“I think so. Let me look.” A minute later she was back on the phone. “In February of 1973 we brought a party to Windham, New York. The client was the Ford Modeling Agency.”
“Do you keep a log of which of your pilots flew on each reservation?”
“Of course we do. On this flight Mr. Ambrose, himself, was the pilot.”
“Thank you, Miss Lansing,” Twaddle responded crisply and hung up the phone.
“Ben, call the Windham Police Station. Tell them that a potential murderer is on his way to Windham. They must find the name of the grandfather who died and left his cabin to Lisa Markey. I will have a police helicopter waiting for us at the heliport. We have got to get there on time.”
• • •
In murky darkness, Alexandra got off the bed and reached to turn on the lamp. It didn’t work. She then flipped the wall switch for the overhead light. Again, nothing. She felt her way into the living room. The rain was beating savagely against the windows and roof. She had noticed there was a flashlight on the shelf over the kitchen sink. Her foot hit the ottoman in front of the television and she lost her balance but managed to steady herself before she fell. Disoriented in the unfamiliar surroundings, she made herself stand perfectly still and think. The entrance to the kitchen was on the right side of the living room. The couch was facing the television and was across the room from the ottoman. Extending her arms, she sidestepped until she felt the wall and then went forward, making her way into the kitchen.
She moved forward until she felt the wooden door frame at the entryway. Steadying herself against it, Alexandra visualized the layout of the kitchen. The refrigerator was on the right. The sink was just past it. Once she had the flashlight, she would be all right. Praying that the batteries would work, she moved slowly until her fingers touched the cold steel of the sink. She reached up and felt the shelf and then groped until she felt the cool plastic frame of the flashlight. Afraid she might drop it, she wrapped both hands around it. Probing the surface, her thumb found a switch that she was able to slide forward. The welcome beam of light brought a huge sigh of relief.
She knew there was nothing she could do until either the electricity came back on or it was light in the morning. Feeling famished, she opened the refrigerator door and shined the flashlight inside. Taking an apple, she padded to the big chair in the living room. She felt herself shivering and realized how cold the room had become. The flashlight’s beam revealed a blanket folded on the ottoman. She wrapped the blanket around her and shined the beam on her wristwatch. It was only 5 P.M.
She finished the apple, put the core in an ashtray and closed her eyes. She was so tired again. So unreasonably tired. She started to drift off, unable to fight the overwhelming fatigue.
• • •
A patrol car, its siren screeching, raced Twaddle and Lyons to the heliport on East 34th Street.
“We don’t have much time,” Twaddle said. “And we still don’t have Lisa Markey’s address in Windham. But while they are searching for it, we will be on our way there. By the time we get to the helipad, Ambrose, if that’s where he’s gone, will already be at least thirty minutes ahead of us.”
The pilot was already at the controls of the helicopter when the squad car pulled up. Twaddle and Lyons scrambled aboard.
“There is a major storm in the Windham area,” the pilot informed them. “If it hasn’t passed, we may have to circle around until it does.”
“That could work to our advantage,” Twaddle said. “Pray God, it does.”
The next hour was spent in silence, broken only by Twaddle’s one remark. “I should have known immediately,” he said. “Why else would she have fled the airport without her suitcases? Ambrose was the one she was afraid of. And now looking at his dossier, we have the whole picture.”
Finally they spotted the emergency landing lights of the Windham helipad.
• • •
Janice and Mike found nothing else in Alexandra’s papers to suggest where she might have gone. At six o’clock they tried to concentrate on the evening news. The Watergate scandal was the top story.
A harried-looking President Nixon was being threatened with impeachment. The calls for his resignation were growing louder.
The Big Apple’s steady drumbeat of fiscal problems was raising the possibility of bankruptcy.
A neighbor had reported a new piece of evidence against a young mother who was under suspicion for the murder of her two children.
When the doorbell rang, a persistent demanding ring, they both were startled. Michael sprang up to answer it. Larry Thompson was at the door.
“I thought she was dead,” he said in a near shout. “A newspaper reporter who has sources inside the police department told me that when they removed the Beauty Mask, you said the dead girl was not your sister.” His face was deadly white, his tone of voice ragged and demanding. “You’ve got to tell me. Is Alexandra alive? Is she alive?”
They had promised Twaddle that they would not reveal the truth to anyone. But looking at the tortured expression in Larry Thompson’s eyes, Janice was compelled to answer. “Yes, she is,” she said flatly.
The icy calm she had managed to maintain broke.
In a burst of words, she sobbed, “The police believe that whoever murdered Lisa Markey did it
by mistake and is stalking Alexandra. The detectives are on their way to Windham in a helicopter, hoping that she is staying in Lisa’s ski cabin. But they’re not sure that she is there. And they still don’t know the exact address in Windham.”
Thompson stared at her as wildly conflicting emotions played out on his face. He grasped Janice’s arm. “Why didn’t they ask me?” he demanded. “I know the address. I KNOW IT.”
• • •
Alexandra opened her eyes. Although it was still raining, it was not the torrential rain of the early afternoon. Without the flashlight she could see the bare outlines of the furniture in the room. She was still exhausted, but the consuming fatigue that had kept her sleeping almost round the clock since she had arrived here three days ago was diminishing.
It was in London that it had started. She had almost been hit by a car. She had blamed herself for not being careful to look to her left as she crossed the street. But it wasn’t like her to do that. She had begun feeling light-headed that day. Why?
In Venice she had barely made it through the magazine shoot, unable to give Larry the wide-eyed expression he had been looking for. “Come on, Alexandra, you have been doing this for years. Did you stay up all night?”
I knew that Grant Wilson had taken out a three-million-dollar policy on me, she thought. He was worried about the Beauty Mask campaign, that the client wouldn’t be satisfied. He’s been losing clients. I wonder how badly he needs that insurance money to stay afloat.
But it was when they came back to Kennedy Airport that she began to suspect who was responsible for what was happening to her. When Marcus Ambrose offered to drive her home, she had accepted. They were behind the others leaving the baggage area. For some reason he had been stopped at the baggage exit and ordered to open all of his luggage.
When he unzipped his shaving kit, the agent reached in, pulled out a prescription bottle and examined it. “I assume as a pilot you know you can’t take these for forty-eight hours before you take the controls. Barbiturates as strong as these can make you very drowsy.”
It was at that moment that she knew she could not get in the car with him.
Alexandra shivered. She wanted to be home. Janice and Mike were surely waiting for her there. She wanted—at last Alexandra allowed herself to face the reality that she had resisted. She wanted desperately to be with Larry.
• • •
When they stepped out of the helicopter, two uniformed policemen were waiting for them. “I’m Captain Rawley,” the older one said to introduce himself. “Officer Jennings is our driver. Let’s get out of this rain and into the car.”
The news that Twaddle had been hoping to hear had not come. Lisa Markey was not in the Windham town register.
To find her address, they needed to know the name of her grandfather. She might not have switched the title to her own name.
“We got a warrant for her apartment,” Twaddle explained. “We found nothing related to her cabin. So far we haven’t been able to locate any relatives who could help us.”
“There is another potential problem,” Captain Rawley said. “Most people have never heard of the really small towns around here. People who have ski places up here say they’re in Windham because people recognize that name. We have the clerks in all of the neighboring towns searching their records. To find her cabin we need to focus on her grandfather.”
“What about neighbors? Would they have noticed an older man living by himself?” Twaddle inquired.
“The trouble is that most of the houses are ski cabins and unoccupied now. Once kids are out of school, about half of the owners come back during the summer,” Rawley replied.
“What about security system providers or caretaking services?” Twaddle demanded. “Either one would have permanent phone numbers to call in case of emergency. They might have a number that matches Lisa Markey’s in New York City. Or one of them might remember the name of an elderly client who recently passed away. Surely someone can be found who can give us the address of Lisa Markey’s cabin.”
Twaddle’s voice was calm but he had emphasized every word. Surely someone can be . . .
Ben knew that when his partner spoke like that he was beyond frustration and desperately worried that it might be too late to save Alexandra Saunders.
“We are trying all of the above,” Rawley insisted. “I am awaiting information.”
The car had been idling. Recognizing that they had no idea where to go next, Officer Jennings switched off the ignition.
For ten long minutes there was absolute silence. It was suddenly broken by the cackling of the radio.
“We have it,” a terse voice announced. “We received a call from New York City. The sister got the address. We’re dispatching two patrol cars.”
“What is the address?” Twaddle demanded.
“Twelve Snowden Lane.”
“We’re five minutes from there,” Rawley snapped.
Before Rawley finished, Officer Jennings had started the car, flipped on the siren and was speeding toward Snowden Lane.
• • •
Marcus Ambrose knew he could not risk landing at the town heliport. He had hovered for over a half hour on the perimeter of the storm, waiting for it to diminish.
He remembered clearly that there was a church parking lot about a mile south of Lisa’s cottage. Checking to be sure the parking lot was empty, he eased the chopper to a landing behind the church, where it would be out of sight from the road. He was pleased that the rain would muffle the sound of the engine.
He reached behind him for a rain slicker and put it on hurriedly. Then, taking a deep breath, he opened the helicopter door and hopped to the ground. His hand went into his pocket, checking to be sure that the two items he needed were there. Aiming his flashlight ahead of him, he walked swiftly up the small hill and through the wooded area that separated the church parking lot from Lisa Markey’s cabin.
• • •
There has really never been anyone else, Alexandra kept thinking. She realized she had a crush on Larry that day ten years ago when as an eighteen-year-old she was sent to his studio. Somewhere along the line she had fallen in love with him.
Her eyes welled with tears. Had she always misread him? How often in Venice had he asked her, “What is wrong?” I know he cares about me. He always did. When I thought he didn’t care, I should have realized that he needed some time to himself after all those difficult years with Audrey and then her illness.
She heard a creaking sound behind her.
• • •
“It’s about a quarter mile down this dead-end road,” Rawley said. “It’s the only house on this road. Turn off the siren. We don’t want to warn him.”
The dirt road was flooded in some areas and forced Officer Jennings to slow to a crawl. Ben knew that it could become impassable, which would mean they would have to run to the cabin where Alexandra might be.
Lurching and skidding, they finally spotted the cabin ahead. A tree had fallen across the driveway.
• • •
The blinding glare of a flashlight was trained on Alexandra’s face.
“Just want to be sure it’s really you this time,” Marcus Ambrose said softly. “Too bad about your friend.” He was holding a cord in his hand.
Alexandra pushed aside the blanket and tried to get up. Her feet were tangled in it and she could not move fast enough. In an instant he was behind the chair slipping the cord around her neck. As she struggled to escape, the cord tightened and bit into her flesh.
“No, no, no, please God, no.”
Her hands reached up to try to stop the cord from tightening any further. But it was useless. She could not get her fingers under it. She began to black out, her mind filled with the image of her sister’s face. They had had so little time together. And Larry. He loved her. She knew he loved her—
She gasped as the cord stopped being pulled tight and she felt something being rubbed on her face. She tried to move but the cord im
mediately tightened again.
“Hold still. It’s time for your final Beauty Mask,” Marcus Ambrose whispered.
• • •
Officer Jennings swerved around the fallen tree onto the front lawn. The tires sank into the waterlogged soil. As their car came to a halt, the electricity blinked back on. Through the living room window, they could see with frightening clarity the nightmarish scene that was being enacted. Alexandra Saunders was seated in a chair, her blonde hair spilling on her shoulders. Her would-be murderer was holding a cord around her neck with one hand. His other hand was smearing something white on her face.
Ambrose looked up and saw the headlights of the patrol car. Startled, he let go of the cord and fled through the side door heading toward the woods. Rawley and Jennings bolted from the patrol car, chased him to the edge of the woods and wrestled him to the ground.
Twaddle and Ben rushed into the living room, where an unconscious Alexandra was slumped against the side of the chair. In an instant Twaddle had loosened the rope around her neck. Ben pulled her from the chair onto the floor and frantically began administering CPR, forcing air into her tortured lungs . . . forcing her heart to begin beating again.
• • •
On Sunday afternoon Detectives Twaddle and Lyons paid a visit to Alexandra in her apartment. Mike answered their ring. With a smile of welcome, he motioned them in.
Alexandra was sitting on the couch, a bandage around her neck. She was wearing a multicolored caftan, her blonde hair loose on her shoulders. Her vivid blue eyes were sparkling. Her complexion was flawless.
What an incredibly beautiful woman, Twaddle thought. The face that launched a thousand ships.
She started to stand up but was restrained by a hand on her arm.
“Take it easy,” Larry cautioned. “You’re still unsteady on your feet.”
She smiled at the detectives. “I don’t know how to thank you,” she said. “If you hadn’t been there . . .”
“I am so glad we were,” Twaddle responded.
“I hardly remember anything after he started choking me. . . .”
Death Wears a Beauty Mask and Other Stories Page 8